Melancholy Baby

6

Dr. Copeland was still a large, athletic-looking shrink. He was wearing a brown tweed jacket today, with a white Oxford shirt and maroon knit tie. His dark hair was still slicked straight back. He still wore big, round, black-rimmed glasses. He was still immaculate.

When I was seated across the desk from him in his office, he said, “It’s nice to see you again, Sunny.”

I felt sort of thrilled. He called me by my first name.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m glad to see you, too.”

I did not venture to call him Max. He smiled and sat back.

“Richie is getting married,” I said.

He nodded.

“You remember Richie,” I said.

“Your former husband,” Copeland said.

“Yes. Do you remember everything we talked about?”

“If I don’t, I’ll ask you to remind me,” Copeland said.

“Last time we talked, you said the bond between us was powerful, or something like that.”

“I remember,” he said.

“What do you think now?” I said.

“I also said I didn’t know where it would lead,” Copeland said.

“Covered yourself,” I said.

Copeland didn’t say anything.

“I guess I’m mad at you,” I said.

Copeland nodded.

“The hell of it is,” I said, “you were right. There is a strong bond between us.”

Copeland nodded.

“But I can’t live with him. I can’t live with anybody, really. And... Richie’s too... too traditional, I guess. He wants a wife and probably children.”

Copeland was leaning forward. He had his fingertips together in front of him and, with his elbows resting on the arms of his chair, he tapped his steepled forefingers against his chin softly as he listened.

“I’m thirty-seven,” I said. “If I’m going to have kids, I better do it now.”

Copeland smiled.

“You have a few years,” he said.

“It doesn’t matter. I couldn’t be a wife and mother anyway.”

Copeland nodded just as if it were perfectly normal for a woman to reject marriage and children.

“I don’t know anyone like me,” I said.

“That doesn’t wish marriage and children?”

“Yes.”

“Believe me,” Copeland said. “There are many.”

“I don’t know what to do,” I said.

“What would you like to do,” Copeland said.

“I’d like to stop feeling like I’ve been shot in the stomach,” I said.

“I would think that some member of the Boston psychotherapy community could help you with that,” Copeland said.

“I want you to help me.”

He shook his head.

“Why not?” I said.

“I would like to work with you, Sunny, but I am retiring.”

“You’re not old enough to retire,” I said.

He nodded as if to acknowledge a compliment.

“I’m finishing up with my current patients and will be closing the office before the end of the year.”

I felt panicky.

“You too,” I said.

“Another rejection?” he said.

“I screwed up my courage and screwed up my courage to finally come here, and you are going to retire.”

“It is, of course, not personal,” Copeland said.

“Not to you,” I said.

“Well,” Copeland said, “in a sense it is. I am, after all, the one who’s retiring.”

“I know,” I said. “I know.”

“I can refer you to someone.”

“Like who?”

“I need to make some phone calls,” Copeland said. “To see who is currently taking new patients.”

“I was counting on you,” I said.

“I know. I’m sorry. But I can assure you that I will refer you to someone smart enough and” — he smiled a little — “tough enough to help you with this.”

“And you think I can be helped.”

“I’m sure,” Copeland said. “Generally, as you probably understand, what one needs in successful therapy is a good shrink, and a patient with the courage and brains to work on the issue. I can provide the good shrink. I know you have the rest.”

I felt short of breath, but I also felt reassured. I breathed in some air and let it out. I did that a couple times.

Then I said, “One request.”

Copeland bowed his head in a small encouraging gesture.

“Not Dr. Melvin,” I said.

“No,” Copeland said. “Not Dr. Melvin.”